Marc's Secret Pt. 02

MARC'S SECRET, PART 2

by Dani Sweets

It was always the scariest part of the day for you, wasn't it Marc? Well, any working day. That few seconds it took to enter the lobby of the office at which you worked, walk past the reception desk, then use your security pass to enter the labyrinth of corridors that would take you to your workstation.

So why was that scary? Because of Emily, of course.

Not that there was anything objectively fearsome about the vivacious young receptionist. Quite the reverse. She was as cheerful and friendly as you could wish for in a coworker. Someone whose dazzling smile and willingness to help weren't just reserved for clients, or senior managers. You'd liked her from the moment you first met, several months back when you joined the firm. And she was pretty too, even if her attractiveness no longer seemed to prompt even a hint of the fleeting lust that you had so often felt for women like her in the past.

No, there was nothing terrifying about Emily. As a person, at any rate. But what she might notice and comment upon when she greeted you each morning ... that was another matter.

To be fair, she wasn't all-seeing. Ever since the first week of your job, you'd been coming to work with female underwear and hose beneath your very conventional male clothing. If Emily had ever spotted that, she hadn't said anything. Which relieved you of the need to come up with an explanation for a practice that you didn't understand, had no recollection of engaging in, but couldn't seem to stop.

It was strange, but if you put your mind to picking out a full set of lingerie to put on in the morning, then that is what you wore. It was only if you tried to go commando, or stick to just panties, that you would arrive at work in a randomly chosen bra and stockings that you had no memory of donning. Together, of course, with the now ever-present corset.

On one occasion you made a point of stopping off on the way to work to purchase a pair of boxers, of the sort you used to own before inexplicably throwing them all out. Only to discover when you reached the office not only that you had lost them somewhere along the way, but purchased - and put on! - a very expensive set of all-white bridal lingerie. Fortunately, there was no wedding dress waiting for you in your wardrobe when you got home. Just a stack of bridal magazines, which you couldn't seem to throw away ... and which you kept finding yourself looking through at odd moments, even to the point of marking pages with especially lovely gowns.

After that little episode, you decided it might be safer to choose your own female underwear. But that didn't put an end to your secret shopping, as your lingerie collection grew. You built up a particularly fine collection of fishnet stockings, in a wide array of colours that included red, blue, pink and purple, to go with the more conventional black and white. Your shoe collection was expanding as well, both in number and height of heel.

Fortunately, your new footwear remained at home, and the fishnets firmly hidden from the view of anyone at work, Emily included. Still, the receptionist had developed an uncomfortable habit -- not that she would see it that way -- of letting you know each time you took a more visible step down the road to involuntary feminisation.

Like the time she had responded to your usual, bland greeting with raised eyebrows, followed by a swift grin and an admiring "Wow!" It said a lot for your self-control that you didn't stop to seek an explanation, just nodded, went through the usual door -- then headed straight for the bathroom to find out what she had seen, but you somehow hadn't when getting ready for work.

It turned out you were wearing eyeliner. That was all, just black eyeliner. (At this point the bra, panties, corset and stockings underneath your suit somehow didn't count.) But it was enough, and worst of all, it was something new. It meant there could be more to come.

And there was. By the end of the following week, you'd started adding eyeshadow, and after another fortnight just a hint of lip gloss. Followed not long after by blonde tips to your increasingly long hair. No ribbons, but that might only be a matter of time. Soon enough your nails were painted too, although they remained mercifully short.

With each new feature, Emily's reaction grew stronger -- and more approving. Even if she'd never detected your lingerie, she'd been the first to notice and comment on your weight loss. Now she seemed openly admiring of your makeup, to the point where she'd often comment on it. "Great look Marc!" or "Rocking that colour!" were just as likely now to be her greetings as a simple "Hi" or "Good morning."

If there was an implicit invitation there to talk about your makeup choices, you didn't take it up. But it was now an unusual day on which you didn't spend a few minutes chatting to the friendly receptionist about one thing or another.

It didn't matter either that she might be with some of the other, equally attractive members of the support staff. (Despite being an "equal opportunity employer," the firm's hiring practices suggested that the opportunities in question were reserved strictly for those with a modelling background - both male and female.) For whatever reason, you seemed far more confident now when talking to pretty women. And they, for their part, didn't seem to mind at all what you were doing with your appearance.

On one occasion, while you were sharing a lift, Emily even leaned into you and whispered "So good to have a guy who's brave enough to wear makeup! It looks really good too ..."

Oddly, this flustered you a lot less than it might have done. Because you could see she was not flirting, just being friendly and supportive. Besides, you knew your makeup looked good. Not because you'd ever consciously intended to put it on for work. But because, all the same, you'd been practising -- with the help of someone who was no longer wearing it.

Ivy had been at the centre of your existence when you came to work at the firm. And she still was -- just in a totally different and utterly unexpected way. The unrequited longing for her had disappeared. And so too had the loose acquaintance that dated back over the many years that she had known your acid-tongued sister Jenna. Now you were -- well, "friends" didn't go nearly far enough in describing your new bond, did it? You were more like allies and confidantes.

When Ivy had first revealed that she too was dressing and acting in ways she couldn't remember, let alone understand, it was immediately apparent that you were suffering from the same affliction. Only where you were progressively becoming more feminine, she was wearing male underwear, letting her body hair grow unchecked, strapping down her breasts, and even slipping a prosthetic penis into her underpants.

Her overall appearance hadn't changed unduly, not least because, even without makeup, she was still undeniably pretty. And she had always tended to wear pants rather than skirts, and flats as opposed to heels. She had never got the kind of looks you had now started to attract, which ranged -- at least in terms of the ones you noticed -- from the overt encouragement of those like Emily, through the curious or puzzled (the majority), to the frowns of some of the older staff.

At the same time, and just like you, Ivy couldn't be sure of what she might do or change next. So, it was understandable that after realising that you were going through something similar, her first instinct was to enrol you in the effort to figure out how and why all this was happening. From there, it would hopefully be possible to stop it and go back to your previous lives.

A little voice in your head wondered if that would be such a great idea, at least in your case. But because that was just a nagging feeling, and you were certain that you wanted to help Ivy, you kept the doubt to yourself and threw yourself into the task of solving the mystery.

A task at which the two of you utterly failed.

It took a few weeks of frantic meetings and fevered discussions, which you eventually decided were best conducted away from scrutiny in Ivy's apartment (rather than easily misconstrued visits to the supply room), before two things became apparent. You were getting nowhere in the hunt for answers. And a good part of the time was being spent answering each other's questions about being female or male.

She talked to you about makeup -- and then started giving you lessons when you began to wear it, out of a belief (she said) that if you were going to do something, you should do it well. She even helped you buy what you needed -- though you still had no recollection of having started in the first place. And for the moment at least, the elaborate, full-face makeup that you were learning to do at her place was not being replicated at work.

She had also started to expand your wardrobe, giving you things that she no longer wanted to wear but thought "might look good on you." The fact that the two of you were of a similar size and build made that easier. She couldn't give you any help with high heels. But you were getting plenty of practice with the increasingly impressive collection you were keeping in your bedroom at home.

You too provided her with clothes -- and for want of anything more useful, extensive guidance on football, to the point where she could not merely hold down a conversation but began going to games.

And then there was the gym. You both went to the same one, something that was not a coincidence -- though you didn't tell her that, or indeed anything about your former infatuation. It took you both a while to realise that you had at some point swapped exercise plans. She was now putting on muscle (something you'd always struggled to do), while you were getting increasingly light and flexible.

Even when you handed the plans back to one another, you somehow never got round to changing your new exercises. And you were both dressing differently, she in loose singlets and shorts, you in yoga pants with mesh panels and pink trainers.

And that became the dynamic between you and Ivy. You sympathised with each other's plight and made occasional but fruitless attempts to work out what was happening. But beyond the talk, what you were mostly doing was hasten each other's transformation.

In all this, you were careful to keep the relationship a secret, making sure for instance that when you went out shopping together it was as far away as possible from any of your usual haunts. You were out often enough that Jenna took to teasing you at home about your "secret girlfriend," but you never let on that it was her best friend you were seeing.

As for Ivy's relationship with Greg, the CEO's son and someone whose wealth and good looks made him an object of open desire on the part of many of the firm's staff ... well, that was more of a puzzle. Although Ivy didn't say anything, as far as you knew they were still going out. But it was rare to see them in each other's company any more around the office.

It was strange, but Ivy never seemed to be around now whenever Greg came to discuss any work in which you were all involved. You'd chat to him, wondering when she might reappear. But somehow, she always seemed to be off doing other things. She was clearly avoiding him, but you had no idea why -- or how she even knew when he was going to show up. In any case, you were too loyal to her to ask what was going on -- and Greg didn't seem to bring up the topic of their relationship either.

And in all this, what you gradually came to realise was that you were happier than you'd been since ... well, as far back as you could remember. Part of that was enjoying Ivy's company, without the stress of being lovesick. But you had also come to relish dressing in feminine clothes and exploring new ways to look good in makeup, at least when you could do that properly and fully.

There was always a thrill in seeing yourself in the mirror when you'd found new ways of accentuating your eyes or a bolder shade for your lips. Or sitting down and crossing nylon-clad legs in the approved manner and letting your short skirt ride just far enough up to reveal your stocking tops, before tugging it down again. Or trying out a new pair of fake boobs and sketching in some lines on your hairless chest that looked for all the world like a cleavage. Or taking off your corset at night and admiring just how narrow your waist had become. Or clacking in your highest heels across the hard floor in Ivy's apartment, so much more satisfying than the thick carpet you had to work with at home.

And Ivy too seemed to really enjoy teaching you to dress, look and move in all the ways that she herself felt compelled to abandon. She could see how much you were enjoying the look and feel of femininity, and wanted to do what she could to make you the best girl that makeup, exercise, corset-wearing and a glamorous wardrobe could produce.

It also clearly took her mind off her own struggles. Because football aside, and perhaps a developing taste for craft beers, there wasn't anything like as much for her to enjoy out of being more masculine. You could see that she was beginning to notice and surreptitiously observe other attractive women, in a way you found all too familiar. But the question of who found whom attractive was not yet a topic that either of you wanted to broach with the other. Especially given the efforts you were making not to dwell on where your own eyes were now starting to go ...

It was enough that your relationship with Ivy was free of its former strain and that you were there for each other as friends.

Of course, your happiness was relative. You still had to suffer through the constant stress of discovery, including at home. Your parents and Jenna all had demanding jobs and busy lives, which have you time even at the weekends with the house to yourself to get dressed, practise your makeup and hand wash your lingerie. And you were old enough that you didn't have to worry about someone bursting into your room or demanding to know what you were doing in there.

Even so, it was nerve wracking to know that your family must be aware at some level at least of your new habits, and to wonder what they thought about them. While the underwear might remain your little secret, there was no hiding the nails, or the eye makeup. As best you could tell, your mother and father were treating you the same as they had always done since you had left university but failed to leave home. For her part, you would catch your sister smirking at you. But then she had always done that, and often worse.

You also had to deal with the constant fear of what you might do or wear next at work. An anxiety that was at its height as you arrived there and greeted Emily, trying not to let the strain show on your face.

Over the past few weeks, your passage through the foyer had delivered quite a number of jolts to your security and sense of self. Today, however, was going to take the cake. A cake with dazzling pink icing, satin ribbons and a whole basket full of cherries on top.

The first warning you had was the blur of motion as Emily hurled herself towards you and caught you up in as much of a bearhug as someone so slender could deliver -- although in truth you carried scarcely more weight than her these days. Oddly, she seemed to have shrunk a few inches, as she buried her head into your chest.

When she released you and looked up, her eyes were shining. "Oh, Marc, I'm so happy for you! It's so brave what you're doing! I really hope it works out the way you want it to!" And she kissed you tenderly on the cheek.

Before you could even begin to think about how to react, she had glanced downwards. "Oh wow, those are fantastic! What a great way to mark the big day! Where did you get them?"

Your own gaze followed hers. You were wearing an elegant pair of black pumps with an intricate embossed design and four-inch heels. No wonder Emily seemed shorter! And what was visible of your feet was plainly encased in patterned black stockings or tights, not the thick socks that typically concealed the nylon or silk.

Struggling to find any sort of equilibrium, you chose to answer Emily's question while you struggled to make sense of what you had just heard. You stammered out the name of a high-end designer shoe store, but didn't mention the pumps had been a present from Ivy.

Emily's eyes widened at the name. "Holy fuck!" she exclaimed, "you were really treating yourself! Hey, listen," she went on, laying a hand on your arm, which to your relief seemed to be clad in something like your usual jacket. "Me and the girls were wondering if you wanted to come with us and have a drink after work? You know, to kind of ... celebrate? But only if you feel comfortable, of course?"

"Um yeah, no, sure," you babbled. "That would be, um, great." You weren't entirely sure who "the girls" might be, even if you could take a guess at some of them. But their identity was less of a puzzle at this point than what it was you were supposed to be celebrating. All you could think of was to find a way of ending this conversation as quickly as possible.

"Great!" enthused the receptionist. "We usually meet up here at five-thirty, okay?" And with that, she gave you one more kiss on the cheek and walked back to her station.

A visit to the bathroom confirmed that the heels and visible hose seemed to be the only major change, though the black suit you were wearing was one you had no recollection of buying. It was cut in a way that was perhaps more androgynous than feminine, though the pants might readily have qualified as slacks. The mauve shirt too, though plain enough, was buttoned on the right rather than the left -- and could easily have been called a blouse.

Clearly, something had happened. But what on earth was it? It was only after enduring a number of mystifying smiles, nods and murmured greetings from those you passed -- along with at least one barely disguised grimace -- that you reached your desk and finally discovered the answer, in the fourth email you read.

It was a memo from HR to all staff, informing them that you had announced an intention to transition to being female. Notwithstanding recent developments, the firm trusted that you would be supported in your choice and now be allowed to go by "she" and "her."

Transition. To being female!

Didn't see that coming, did you? So much for your little secret ...

[To be continued]